


The Lucky One

by versti_fantur



Category: LazyTown
Genre: Cop!Íþró, Human!Íþró, M/M, Please read the end notes for trigger warnings I don't wanna put spoilers here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:26:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23787052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/versti_fantur/pseuds/versti_fantur
Summary: He was supposed to be the good guy. His morals were the only thing he could rely on in his undercover work, the only thing that kept him sane. So why did doing the right thing feel so heartbreakingly wrong this time?
Relationships: Glanni Glæpur/Íþróttaálfurinn
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	The Lucky One

**Author's Note:**

> I'm probably gonna submit this (w/ changed names) for an english assignment so wish me luck lmao
> 
> Also read the end notes for trigger warnings :)

They called him the lucky one. The one who’d brought down the infamous Glanni Glæpur’s criminal enterprise from the inside. They called him a hero. But he disagreed.

It had started years ago, Íþró joined the police force, as was expected of him. He was smart, intuitive, he got ahead. Eventually agreeing to undercover work. Against his better judgement of course, but he’d always struggled to say no to his superiors. His first placement? Glanni Glæpur’s gang.

He hated it at first, being on the wrong side of the law; even if it was for the right reasons it still made him sick. Stealing. Lying. Hurting. But then, somehow, Glæpur himself took a shining to him, and Íþró was grateful. He wasn’t entirely certain how it’d occurred, he wasn’t any more special or worthy than the other lackeys, but, for one reason or another, Glæpur liked him, promoted him. Hell, maybe he knew Íþró was a spy from the start, and was just toying with him, like a cat with a mouse. Íþró didn’t know. Maybe he didn’t even care.

Either way, he became Glæpur’s right hand man. Informed on everything, from minor drug deals to other deeds that turned Íþró’s stomach. Glanni barely batted an eye at breaking some limbs, removing fingers, not his own, of course, but whatever it took to get what he wanted. And there was something about him, standing in dark rooms illuminated only by cigarettes and gas lamps, with blood on his hands and purple lipstick smudged to his cheek that twisted something in Íþró’s stomach, tightened around his throat. Still, he reported back to the police force. 

Good boy. 

But as he learnt more about him, and Glæpur became Glanni, became darling, became dearest, his reports declined in frequency. Their relationship grew, like a plant nurtured with blood and crime, and maybe it was twisted, but it was uniquely them. They became friends, became lovers, became more. Brief conversations became long discussions, and Íþró fell into the tangling, swirling mess of soft prose and barked orders. Before Íþró even knew it, he was under Glanni’s spell, head over six inch stiletto heels. It was wrong. By gods, it was probably illegal and fucked up and Glanni was wanted for murder for fucks sake, but Íþró loved him. More than he could remember ever loving anyone else.

Glanni was unlike anyone he’d ever met before; a whirlwind of emotions sweeping up anything that dared get in the way. His mouth was practically sinful in more ways than one, his silver tongue spinning lies into sugar coated truths that Íþró ate up willingly. But he could be cruel. Oh so cruel. When he was angry his words dripped with malice and vengeance, tongue sharp and unforgiving. No one was spared. Not even Íþró.

He wasn’t weak, he wouldn’t take the scathing curses lying down like some loyal puppy. He gave back as good as he got, until they were both screaming so loud the walls trembled and bruises littered their skin, blossoming deep violet next to jagged scarlet lines.

But they always made up. Somehow. Their shouts softening to whispered apologies, falling back into bed like newlyweds, full of soft kisses that promised never again, promised forever.

Until they didn’t.

Glanni was pissed, something expensive and risky had failed and he was out for blood. Íþró just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Glanni cut too deep this time, too harshly, and something deep inside Íþró snapped. He left. He filed a report. He waited.

The look on Glanni’s face as he was dragged into the police van was forever seared into Íþró’s brain. The anger, the hurt, the betrayal, all burning behind those fiery grey eyes. But all Íþró felt was numb.

He got the death sentence. Íþró got a medal. Glanni chose hanging, dramatic bitch. The second Íþró saw him climb the gallows he realised he’d made a mistake. Even in his dying moments Glanni still commanded an audience. Demanded their unwavering attention. And who were they to refuse? All eyes were on him, even with his hands bound and his face void of makeup he still exuded power and confidence, and as he placed his head in the noose his icy gaze was focused only on Íþró. He could’ve sworn a smirk danced on Glanni’s lips as he fell, his body swinging from the old, worn rope. But Íþró wished he was anywhere else.

They gave him titles, promoted him, showered him in accolades—he’d single-handedly brought down a criminal empire! It was something to be celebrated! But he was still numb. He still existed, went through the daily motions, but nothing held any spark, an emotions, besides guilt, remorse, and shame.

Slowly, the years passed, and he was forgotten. Withdrawing and blending in will do that to you. Not his actions, but as a person he faded from his associates collective conscience. He left the force, there were enough young recruits with heads full of dreams and ambition ready to replace him anyway. No one noticed his leave.

He bought some land, far away from anyplace familiar, with a small house. No telephone. Barely spoke anymore. Sometimes he’d drive his fists through the walls, splintering wood into his skin just to feel something. Anything.

And sometimes. Sometimes. He’d swear he could hear Glanni’s voice, from outside, or another room, calling out to him in that low, husky, gorgeous voice, promising forgiveness, redemption, companionship, anything. And Íþró would fight back tears, focus on breathing. Because it wasn’t real. Glanni was dead. Because Íþró had fucked it up. And now he had to live with the consequences. No matter how heart breaking they were.

**Author's Note:**

> TW! Major character death by hanging, referenced injury, mutual domestic abuse (briefly mentioned)
> 
> Title from The Lucky One by Taylor Swift. Hell this entire fic is based on that song, I love it.
> 
> Comments and Kudos brighten my day and I'll probably love you forever tbh xD


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